


Liege

by sister_coyote



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Backstory, Community: yaoi_challenge, Group Sex, Loyalty, Multi, OrgXIII, Polyamory, Power Dynamics, Third-Person Plural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-02
Updated: 2007-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is everything to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liege

They know he thinks he chose them, selected the keenest-eyed, sharpest-witted of the lesser Nobodies to serve as his retinue, honor guard, cabal, firing squad. They know this is not true, because to a one, they recognized him as soon as they saw him, even before he saw them. But if he chooses to interpret their mutual understanding as his choice, well, they have no complaint.

Their forms change to mimic him, to mark themselves as his and do him honor by imitation. When he first sees a squad of five of them, prepared to go with him on a mission, he startles, and then quirks an eyebrow and asks, "Well, snipers, ready to kick some ass?"

So they are named.

From that first day, they would die for him, because he gives them shape and name, which are rare and precious in this half-lit world. All of them have intelligence and personality intact; it is what separates them from Dusks and Creepers, after all. Most of them have more memories than not, and some of them have pretty much all of their memories, though none of them remember their original names. They generally have no need to distinguish themselves among themselves.

"You," Xigbar says, pointing to one of them. "Whaddaya call yourself?"

_Sniper_, she says.

"Yeah? And you?"

_Sniper_, he says, puzzled.

"All of you?" he asks. They indicate their assent. How could it be anything else? There is not enough self in any one of them to make a complete creature; together, they come closer. (With him, they come closest of all.) "Fuck," he says, laughing, horrified. "That's—fuck."

One of them says, _We_ _are_ _what_ _you_ _call_ _us_ _to_ _be_. He gives them purpose. Without it, they are as dusks: with orders, perhaps, but without meaning.

"Okay," he says. "All right. Here's what I want you to do. You, I want on the ridge. Cover the big guy. I want him down and out before I even get close. You two, in the copse. Make sure the dogs aren't a problem. You, come with me and cover me while I take care of the honcho."

This they are more comfortable with. The light-arrow crossbows come to their hands, easier than breathing. They go to work.

He wouldn't need to put his desires into words. He does, anyway—unlike most of the others, who seem to revel in their ability to command obedience from their retinue without words. Xigbar always speaks to them. He seems to prefer it. They do not understand why, but they wait for explicit commands for most things, because it seems to please him.

Most things.

"You," he says. "Nice aim. Didn't think you were gonna make that shot, all the way from the cliff."

One bows low, and though Xigbar cannot hear it, he radiates pleasure on a frequency that all the others hear, and they resonate on the same wavelength in sympathetic pleasure.

Xigbar slings one of his guns up over his shoulder cavalierly, as he often does, and watches the world sink into roiling darkness. "I sure as fuck hope that Kingdom Hearts appreciates all this work," he says.

They agree.

There are some ways in which he permits them to anticipate his needs—or perhaps he simply hasn't realized that's what they're doing. He always wakes up wishing for coffee, so they bring it to him. After a battle, he wants to eat something bloody, perhaps work off the tension—so they see to it that he has a proper meal, they spar with him until he is well enough to rest. It is all they can do. He is their purpose; he is the reason they have tasks and goals and selves; he _is_.

They almost are, and tell each other stories in the dim light, piecing together lives that once were and no longer are. _I_ _was_ _a_ _prince_, _I_ _was_ _a_ _shepherd_, _I_ _had_ _long_ _red_ _hair_, _I_ _loved_ _my_ _brother_ _enough_ _to_ _die_ _for him_. But the I and I and I blend together into _we_, which is easier to bear—into _we_, and _him_.

He calls them to him for a mission, another one. "I should have one of the others backing me up," he says, "but we're spread too thin as it is. So I'm relyin' on you. Got that?"

_Yes_, they say.

He leads them through the city's ruined streets, bullet-pocked concrete and burn-scarred asphalt. Shadow-creatures hiss from the alleys and curse them from the gutters, but melt away when they approach. "Ignore 'em," Xigbar says. "Save your strength for the big one."

They obey.

The big one crouches at the center of what was once perhaps a city park—now gone to fire and shadow. It's nothing but a mouth, ringed with fangs, and a hundred dark tentacles. This world's heart is beneath him. _The_ _treasure_ _in_ _the_ _dragon's_ _lair_, one of the remembers; another says _the_ _horde_ _of_ _Grendel's_ _mother_. They understand.

They understand the way of it, when Xigbar signals to them, gestures that they don't need to understand him but that they attend to anyway.

Together, with him, they can move both fast and precise: sliding and snapping off shots, as he does the same; he is that to which they aspire, he is more powerful than they, more complete—he has kept all of his memories, and his shape, and even after a fashion his _name_, and he and those like him are their only hope of regaining what is lost. The creature gets some of them, and the whole is lessened, and they would grieve if they could; but it is as it must be.

When he kills the thing, as inevitably he will, they precede him back to the Castle, to make ready for his return.

It takes time, because he must finish his tasks, and then he must report, but in the fullness of time he returns to his chambers. They await him. Not all of them—there are too many—but enough; and they will share the experience with the others, and on through the ranks, so that it will be all of theirs. This belongs to the Snipers.

It is another thing they do for him that he does not need to ask for.

Their hands are not as human hands; their bodies are not as human bodies. Nonetheless they are agile, and clever-fingered, because Xigbar would have chosen no less. They do not move fast, but they move smoothly, so that his cloak is off without fuss, his hair loosed, his boots unzipped, his clothes peeled back. He watches them with his one good eye slit narrow, careful. Some of them were beautiful once; some of them were ugly once; none of that matters now. They are Snipers, they are his.

He touches them as if at random; bracing himself with a hand on one shoulder now, twining the other fingers with the fingers of another. Their bodies are not made for this; they were never meant to be, even less to reproduce, but there are ways and ways. They press against him, wanting the touch of skin, wanting to touch him—trace his scars, touch his hair—and he says, "Ahhh, _fuck_," and rolls his head back. They do not have mouths made to speak, and even the touch of minds is inadequate. He is; they are.

One of them takes his cock in hand; another strokes his balls; a third, behind him, slicks fingers and presses in. He sways a little, between them. His hand tightens on one of them, for balance. He says, "God, that's—"

They go slowly, listen to the sounds he makes, feel the tension in his body, the sweat. He gasps. They resonate with pleasure, share it among themselves, like a tuning-fork struck and humming. They vibrate on his frequency until the tension coils and snaps, and he staggers a little, heated, breathless.

He doesn't thank them. They wouldn't know what to do if he did. They ease him to bed. It is not the first time and will not be the last. As long as he needs them, they will be.

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely the first time I've ever written a story from a third-person-_plural_ point of view. ^^


End file.
